


The long way home

by chrislink



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 11:41:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18260555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrislink/pseuds/chrislink
Summary: Now, he only feels the familiar tightening in his chest and has to force himself to slowly exhale. His breath comes out more shakily than he’s ready to admit. Another breath. And another one, before he finally moves. Defying his expectations, the key slides and turns easily. The door opens without a sound.A long road to recovery, maybe.





	1. Prologue

 

A long time ago, he’d learned the name of every wind. He’d always enjoyed knowing things and although that particular tidbit of knowledge never came in handy, he’d cherished it for a long time. But right now, he doesn’t know the name of the wind that’s blowing through the street, howling gloomily and making trees dance wildly. He’s been standing still for a while now, staring at the golden plated names on the door. He’d always felt proud to have his own name for the world to see. Not that they would ever get that many visitors, but still. It made him feel important.

Now, he only feels the familiar tightening in his chest and has to force himself to slowly exhale. His breath comes out more shakily than he’s ready to admit. Another breath. And another one, before he finally moves. Defying his expectations, the key slides in and turns easily. The door opens without a sound. Another breath before he finally steps inside and closes the door, shutting out the outside world effectively.

Suddenly, the silence around him is deafening. Light barely filters through the same thick curtains he remembers. He takes a cautious first step, almost expecting the floor to creepily creak under his foot. He leaves his bag in the entrance, and ventures further into the empty house.

He doesn’t feel ready, knows in his heart of hearts that he isn’t, and probably never will be. He tells himself once again that he has to do it. Do the job that’s in front of you. That’s what has kept him going, day after day, for most of his life now. And that’s what he’ll keep doing.

It hasn’t changed much but somehow feels more barren than before. It looks as though no one has been living there for years. He spots a few differences, here and there. The sofa is cream colored now. It used to be blue. It’s slightly smaller, too. There are a few photographs on the wall that didn’t use to be there. He sees a few of himself and his sister. She’s got a big smile. Some kind of celebration perhaps. A birthday or a graduation, he can’t really tell. He looks… He looks like he always does. He averts his eyes and focuses on pictures of his mother, regrets it almost immediately. The tightening comes back and he has to physically distance himself from the images. He feels foreboding pang of sorrow trying to swallow him, he wills himself to ignore it.

He goes to get his bag, slings it over his shoulder and climbs the stairs, which do creak under his weight, he notes with an odd sense of satisfaction. A few steps take him to the room he’s looking for, passing the ones he wants to avoid. Thankfully, every door is closed. It’s a pretty spare room. A bed, a bedside table with an old fashion lamp standing on it, a wooden chest of drawers and a small desk. The walls are covered with an old yellow wallpaper, the curtains are white. They look brand new, or maybe freshly laundered, but he knows that they’re neither. No one ever uses that room, or has used it. He lets his bag fall near the bed. He finally takes off his shoes, something he should have done earlier. That used to be a rule. No shoes upstairs. The dark floorboards feel solid under his socked feet.

His index makes a trail in the layer of dust on the desk. He debates opening the curtains but decides against it. He knows the view already, hasn’t forgotten it and isn’t looking forward to refresh his memory. The sun’s has almost completely set anyway. With a deep sigh, he lets himself fall on the bed.

There was a time when all he ever wanted was this bed. It looked so big, almost endless compared to his own tiny one. His parents would kindly smile and tell him “one day”. He was always waiting for “one day”, the day he would get to do and to have all the things that were reserved for grownups. A big bed, a big job, a big car. He dreamed of being taller than his father, smoking cigarettes and reading the newspaper before going to work, driving a nice, shiny car. He would get a dog too, and a cat, and they would get a long. He would give all his money to his parents, so that they wouldn’t have to work. What a fool he was then.

His throat is already constricting. He has to stop thinking, he needs to shut his brain down. He stares at the ceiling and starts counting. He gives up after 600, knowing it won’t work tonight, so he just stares. He’d dreamed of sleeping in the guest room as a child, but it’s clearly not going to happen tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is my first ever fanfiction. I've tried writing a few in the past but never got past a few pages. I don't know if this one will, but I figured I might as well give it a try. 
> 
> It's actually inspired by a story and characters that I created, and I'm working them to fit the Skam universe, as there are similarities between the two. Despite the fact that I'm way older than those kids in the TV show, it resonnated with me. 
> 
> This is going to be as sad and angsty as it gets: it's the one thing I love to read, and the one thing I can somewhat write. 
> 
> I can't promise regular updates, I can't even promise that I'll ever finish this fic. I have a rough idea of where I want to take it, but it all hinges on my staying motivated. So we'll see. Another word of warning: English is not my first language and I hate proof reading. I'll do as best as I can though.


	2. Chapter 1

 I

 

He drifts in and out of consciousness, but never really falls asleep. The sun is rising on the other side of the curtains, and he can pictures its light shyly creeping on the street, people waking up, making breakfast, going to work. The cars pulling out of driveways, driving down the street to the offices in the city centre. Children getting ready for school, packing their backs, parents fussing over them, getting on the bus, meeting up with their friends.

He stays unmoving, focuses on breathing. In and out. He knows every detail of the ceiling above him, every pattern drawn by the light filtering through the curtains. He’ll need to move eventually, do things. Unpack his bag, sort out the house.

By his estimation, it’s probably around noon when he shuffles slowly to the bathroom, pristine white, clinically clean almost. The shower is barely lukewarm, but he doesn’t mind, there’s an half empty bottle of shampoo that smells like lavender. His mothers’, probably. The shower doesn’t make him feel anymore alive but he’s clean now at least. He pads back into the dark bedroom and searches blindly for his toothbrush. When he does find it, he brushes his teeth,keeps his head low. He grazes his chin and knows he’s overdue for a shave. To his surprise, he found out years ago that he can indeed grow a beard, but he never lasts longer than a few days, can’t get past the constant itching on his cheeks. Right now, though, he can’t be bothered. Doesn’t want to see how terrible he looks. He knows that already, he’s caught a brief glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, gaunt and tired face, darks circles under dull, cold eyes, not a trace of the person he once was.

Back in the bedroom, he finally starts unpacking. It doesn’t take long, he doesn’t own much, but he makes his movements slow. He’s mostly only got clothes and his old beat up but faithful laptop. He never got around to buy a new one, and this one still works, most days. He doesn’t ask too much of it anyway, only using it to read online articles or mindlessly browse the same websites over and over again. He sets it on the desk and turns it on, while carefully putting his clothes in the chest of drawers. He neatly folds and organizes them in piles.

Opening the web browser takes some time. He can hear the hard drive working, the computer painfully processing his demand. After a few minutes of news reading, he finds himself engrossed in an article about the recovery of fish stock in the Northern-Atlantic ocean. In a different universe, he’s the one write who wrote this. He ends up finding other similar articles, which he saves for later, not wanting to spend too long sitting here. He briefly looks at job ads before shutting it down.

Once he’s finally gotten dressed, he decides it’s time to take a tour of the house, open the curtains, let some air inside, and take stock of what he’s going to be working with. The house has been empty for the past few months, so he assumes whatever food was there is probably gone, not that he eats that much. He avoids the other bedrooms, there will be time to deal with that, or not, later. At least, everything is clean and tidy. There is a fine layer of dust coating the furniture, but nothing that can’t be fixed in a couple of hours. The fridge is indeed mostly empty, and doesn’t even smell. He throws away the milk. There are a bottle of water and some tin cans in the cabinet. He’ll eat tonight maybe, or tomorrow, he should probably set a reminder. The TV works, but he’s never really watched TV, even when he was a child, always preferring getting lost into the latest science book his mother got him. He’ll have to set up a new Internet plan though. He can’t use his phone as a hotspot indefinitely.

He sets out to work, dusting the whole house, save for those couple of rooms. He tries not to acknowledge the odd sense of accomplishment he gets when the job is done. He used to hate chores as a child and a teenager, would grumble or lie his way out of them as often as possible. Now, it gives him something to do at least. Other than think about what he’s going to do now.

What now ? That is indeed the million kroner question. He hadn’t planned on coming back, not permanently. He’s fine with his yearly visit, can even it to twice a year, as long as he doesn’t spend the night. But that’s over now, since it’s all gone to shit. Again. He assumes he’s going to have to stay a few months, at the very least. Or he can sell the house and leave again, for good this time. Do what they did before him and don’t look back. They’re fine after all, probably happy, or happier than him anyway. He wants to do that, feels that it’s the right decision, the one that he wasn’t able to make all those years ago. Erase his whole past, be a completely different person. No parents, no sister, no one. He could even change his name. He wonders briefly if people actually do that. He doubts that they can just vanish and suddenly be someone else. God knows he’s tried.

He can’t leave her, he knows that, deep down. He never could. He always ends up coming back to her, even just for a few hours, even for a phone call or a text message. He hates her, he hates himself more, but he loves her. Despite everything, she’s still his mother, always has been and always will be. The next words in his head make his throat close up. For how much longer ? He’s not going there, pushes back the thought to the deeper parts of his mind, where he keeps all the shit locked up.

He needs a plan. If he’s going to spend the next few months in this empty house, surrounded by all these memories he’d try to ignore, he’ll have to work something out. Find a job, one that involves as little human interaction as possible. Something to keep his mind as numb. He’s not particularly skilled or anything, he’s neither smart or good with his hands but he gets by. He’s worked enough shit jobs over the years to know a thing or two, so job hunting shouldn’t be a problem, especially in a city as big as Oslo.

That is one of the city’s redeeming qualities, he thinks. He can be anonymous. One of the thousand mindless drones working mindless jobs, not quite living, but surviving day after day. In a city so big, he can be invisible. A cockroach. He’s become pretty talented at making himself look insignificant. People usually pass him by without a second look. The world ignores him, and he ignores it right back.

He’s been so focused on thinking up plans and possibilities that the sun is already setting again when he gets off the sofa. Barely twenty-four hours in, and he’s already getting used to the silence of the house. He doesn’t know yet if he likes it or not, but imagines that it’s an improvement from his previous place. He can honestly admit now that it was a literal shit-hole. His neighbours spending their days and nights screaming at each other, fighting everything that moved or just making as much noise as humanly possible. The area is definitely an improvement, despite the silence already feeling as loud as the screams. He just wishes he could ignore the ghosts.

If he’s careful, he can maybe save some money as well. The house is paid for, his name on the deed. It’s just bills and taxes. He’ll need to work it all out soon, maybe get two jobs, just to be on the safe side. He might the king of fuck-ups but he’s not ready to be the one who loses the house.

Eventually, he trudges back upstairs, his body tired and worn out. Maybe he’ll get a couple of hours of sleep in, this time. He can’t quite remember when he last slept, or even ate for that matter. Probably the day before yesterday. The days before the trip back to Oslo are muddled together and he’s not sure if he got the call on a Wednesday or a Thursday. He passes the bedrooms without a look, counts it as a victory.  
He stands still a few seconds, overlooking the guest room. He stores his now empty bag under the bed. After undressing slowly, folds his clothes and lays them on the chair. Sleep does come to him tonight, after a few hours of staring into the dark. His brain can’t fight the weariness any longer and he welcomes oblivion like and elusive old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's finally the first proper chapter. It's still short and nothing much happens, but I more or less ready to post it so there it is. This is going to be a slow paced story, I don't think I know how to write otherwise. Stuff will happen though. Eventually.
> 
> I find the idea of posting as I'm writing the story challenging, it means that I have to stick with whatever decision I make, whether I regret it or not; And there's already one that I regret from the prologue. I guess I'll just have to work my way around it somehow.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for those who have read and sent kudos, it means a lot. I hope you're all enjoying that story. I'll try posting chapter 2 next week. I've written down notes for what I'm guessing is about a third of the story, and I have a definite plan for the very last scene. I just need to figure out all the other bits, and write, write, and write some more.
> 
> Oh, and although I hate proofreading, it's a good thing I did it anyway.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t go outside the following day. He knows that’s bad, even for him, but he doesn’t feel ready.

II

 

He doesn’t go outside the following day. He knows that’s bad, even for him, but he doesn’t feel ready. He’s honest with himself enough to admit why. He knows he’s afraid to face whatever waits for him on the other side of that door. Doesn’t want see to the streets, the houses, the people he remember from all those years ago. It was fine when he got there two days ago, his mind so focused on his childhood home that the rest didn’t matter much. It’s different now.

He tries not to care, he’s worked so hard on that. Not caring about running into old neighbours, meeting familiar faces, having to answer those dreaded queries. He’s aware that there is little chance that people would actually recognize him. He looks nothing like his sixteen year old self. He’s pretty sure he could fool some of his former friends, too. He just can’t risk it, not if there is the slightest chance.

He knows just how pathetic he’s being. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t be this way, that he didn’t care, that he’d left everything behind, including behaving like a scared teenager. He’s an adult now, he should probably start acting like one. One more day, and that’s it. Twenty-four hours and he’ll be back to his normal self, whatever that may be. The lack of food doesn’t help. He’s feeling light-headed and it makes him emotional, probably.

To make up for being a coward for twenty-four more hours, he decides to try and do something productive with his time. He pulls a sheet of paper and makes a list of what he needs to do in the next few days. Get a bus card, call the clinic, visit his mother. He reads more articles, saves a dozen more for later before taking a break from the computer and going downstairs. He’d noticed the book shelves expanding over the years, but never let his mind linger on that detail. Now, he’s standing in front of it and does not know what to thing of the sheer number of books covering a fair part of the living room walls. His mother had always loved reading, a love she’d share with him when he was a child. She had a particular fondness for crime novels, and while he was never really into those, easily guessing the end after a few pages, he’d never miss an occasion to discuss books with her. They’d spend quiet afternoon together, reading on the sofa, his head resting on her chest, enjoying the feeling of her beating heart.

His fingers brush the books delicately, almost tenderly. There are so many new titles, so many books he hasn’t read and discussed with her. He winces at the sudden pang of regret in his chest. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t go there, but being in this house is waking up a part of him he’s tried really hard to bury. He wonder if she’s read them all, even the science ones he’s just spotted. She wasn’t really one for science, but knew he loved it.

His hand hovers over a thick volume. He slowly pulls it out and holds it with slightly trembling hands. It hasn’t changed. The pages are a bit more yellow now, and some of them are creased. The cover certainly has seen better days, but he remembers every sing detail. It used to be his favourite. He’s lost count of how many times he’s read it over the years. He’d read it all the time, even late at night, hiding under a blanket. He’d been obsessed with his book and he’s pretty sure that’s where his love for the ocean world started. He’d had dreams of discovering the underwater world with Captain Nemo, of discovering new species, visiting the deep trenches. His mother would just smile and listen to his ramblings. He’d even written an essay about the book, which had gotten him a 6. She’d been so proud.

He’d spend hours wondering about what had become of the Nautilus, convinced that captain Nemo had somehow survived and saved his beloved ship and was still roaming the deep oceans. He’d imagined him as an old man then, a lone, ageing guardian of a fading world. If the Nautilus had existed, where would it be today? Would it finally die a slow and silent death, at the bottom of the sea, rust devouring it, inch by inch, day by day. Or would it still sail the seas, with a new captain maybe, the ghost of a ghost?

He puts the book back, his hand falling to his side. That’s what he’s become. The echo of an echo. A sigh escapes him, he hates getting like this, all melancholy and fancy thoughts about himself. He’s fine. He’s still himself, still the same person, just slightly older. He’s got normal life. It’ll take a few days, a few weeks maybe, but he’ll get it back on track. He has a roof over his head, he pays bills, he going to have a job, again. He might not be the best at this adulting thing, but he’s alright. He’s seen worse. He’s been worse.

He spends most of the afternoon browsing job ads. He’s never had too much trouble finding work, mostly because he’s willing to do pretty much anything. The country’s economy hasn’t been doing too bad either, despite inflation being mostly on the rise, which really does help his cause, even though he’ll probably need to get two jobs to pay for his mother’s clinic bills as well. He hasn’t really looked into that yet, always assuming she had some kind of social security cover or something to that effect. He doesn’t really mind either way, it gives him something to do.

Interviewers usually look at him oddly, and he thinks he knows why. He’s usually faced with prejudiced people who can’t understand why a guy like him does not have any diploma beyond a high school one. No quite enough of a cockroach it seems. He always manages to shrug off uncomfortable inquiries though, ruefully mentioning that “school just wasn’t for me”.

By the time he’s replied to over a dozen adds, sent his resume and cover letters, it’s already night time. There’s one last thing he wants to do before shutting down his laptop. He looks at train tickets to Bergen. He’s been thinking of going to Aquarium for a while. He hasn’t been there in over a year and he finds himself missing it. He knows it’s an indulgence, just like those articles, a remnant from dreams he’s buried long ago, but he can’t help himself. Before he dwells too much on reasons and stories he’s told himself a thousand times, he clicks and books a ticket for next month. He’s made sure he can cancel his trip without additional fees.

The trip to Bergen gives him something to look forward to. It feels like a reward at the end of a long and tortuous line, but an attainable one at least. He adds the trip to Bergen to the top of his list. Crossing every item will bring him a familiar sense of comfort he doesn’t get to experience often.

He adds one final item before neatly folding the paper and putting it on top of his laptop. Get some groceries. He’s been feeling sluggish all day and his head aches even more than usual, the lack of proper food finally catching up on him. His last proper meal was the sandwich before he got on the train, he thinks. He can’t really remember when that was. He’ll eat tomorrow, he has to. Most of his clothes are too big for him as it is, again. He can’t afford to spend too much money on clothes that actually fit him. He just need to remember that he needs to eat, even if doesn’t really want to, or even remembers.

Had someone told him a few years ago that he was about to spend a third night in a row, here in Oslo, he would have laughed at them, and not in a nice way. Yet, here he is, lying on this somewhat comfortable bed, in this city he’d sworn he would never stay. Leaving had been both a miserable and liberating experience. He’d felt the shame at leaving his mother behind and putting a final nail into his childhood dreams’ coffin. But he’d known at the time it was what he needed, to get away from something that barely resembled a life, from what he’d lost and could never have.

 

Now he’s here, and tomorrow looms like a terrifying world of possibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say sorry about the long delay, but I did warn you. :D


	4. Chapter 3

III

 

The city is a sea, constantly changing, ever the same. A dull grey blur, ebbing and flowing, a constant rumbling of people and cars. As he gazes outside the bus window on the passing buildings and the passing streets, he reflects on how that might apply to him as well. He thought he’d changed so much in so many ways, but he feels back at square one, exactly the same person he was before he left.

 

Can people really change ? He used to think that they could, that maybe he could, too. But change is superficial at best. Human beings hate change, and they’re certainly not made for it. Whatever change they may boast about, he now firmly believes that they where there all along. People don’t change, not really. They evolve, or reveal who they were all along. But a liar will always be a liar, a fuck up will always be a fuck up. He should know.

 

Pulling his list from his pocket, he scans the last items he added in the morning. He needs food and water. Nothing fancy, just basic, easy stuff he can make if he actually gets hungry. He doesn’t need much, just enough to keep the dizziness and headaches at bay. He’s ready to admit that he does feel better after eating the sandwich he got from the bakery before getting on the bus, but having regular meals still feels like a foreign idea. He doesn’t really enjoy food anyway, it all tastes the same after a while. There was a time when he loved it, loved getting pizza, enjoyed a home-made meal. Now, it’s all bland, only good to keep himself alive and somewhat healthy. Getting out of the house had been a difficult affair on its own without the added effects of not having food in a few days.

 

The cold wind on his face was a pleasant surprise when he had first got out of the house, making him feel more awake than he’d had in days. The weather is cold and dreary, as usual, but he doesn’t mind. He actually welcomes the excuse to add layers of protection and hide most of his face from the outside world. There is no chance at all of anyone recognizing him. Not that there was any to begin with. Not that he cares.

 

Feeling more confident, he gets the groceries done in record time, getting the cheapest items and avoiding the cashier’s gaze. He spends the rest of the day walking around the city, getting his bearings, confirming that it has indeed changed very little. He goes to a temp agency, jots down a few job ads he feels competent enough to apply for.

 

At some point, his steps almost take him to President Harbitz’ gate but he quickly turns around when he realises where he’s headed, chastising himself for his sudden lapse. He’s sworn he’ll never look, or even think back to those days and he’s usually fine. Being back here has made things harder but he knows he can overcome those stupid thoughts. He just needs to refocus.

 

That’s how he finds himself on a bus that takes him to the clinic. He’s been there a few times over the years, but it had been a while. He’d stupidly thought that things were good now, that she was better. He goes to sit on a bench near the entrance, knows that he won’t go inside today. He’s not ready, doesn’t know when, or even if, he will be. No after that last phone call. He can guess how it’s going to go, it’s not the first time.

 

This time feels different though. It’s a bad one. That’s what they told him on the phone, and he knows what it means. He knows there’s a big chance that she might look at him and see a child. Or worse, a stranger. He lets out a trembling breath and hates himself for being a coward still.

 

He gets up painfully and slowly walks back to the station, wondering when his body started feeling like that of an old man. His mother needs him and he still can’t bring himself to see her again, only ever visiting her when she’s doing well enough to live in the house. And even then, she probably asks herself what she did to deserve a son like this, a waste of good oxygen. He supposes it could be worse. He could be like his sister, or even his father, but the thought alone makes him feel nauseous enough to keep up with his yearly visit to her.

 

She’d been all smiles last time he’d been around, asking him about his life in Trondheim (good), if he had a boyfriend (no) and how his job was going (good). He hadn’t had a lot to say, and she’d probably guessed as much, as she always did, so she’d talked about her life instead, knowing he felt much more at ease listening to her. So he had let her ramble happily about her latest gardening endeavours, the book club meetings, the shifts she’d picked up at the local florist. They had gone out for lunch to that small place she liked near the Botanical Gardens. They’d enjoyed a quiet stroll in the park, and she’d pointed at various flowers and plants. She had then insisted on an early dinner at home, claiming she needed to fatten him up.

 

He knew she constantly worried about him, about how thin he’d gotten, despite his protest that it was just “an impression”. The shame and guilt were enough to keep him coming back once a year indeed. And also to keep him away the rest of the time.

 

For once, he decides to make an effort and actually eats something when he gets home. It probably doesn’t count as a proper meal, it’s just a ridiculously tiny plate of pasta, but it’s the second time he’s had food today, so he counts that as a win. He does feel a bit queasy afterwards but tells himself it’s just because he’s not used to eating so much any more.

 

Hours later, he’s lying in his bed, still wide awake. A quick look at his phone tells him it’s past three. He’s now been back in Oslo for three full days and he still has no idea what he’s doing. After the phone call, he’d pretty much dropped everything to come here. He’d understood that this wasn’t just an episode, that this might be something more. He’d had this bone-deep feeling that he needed to be here, and not just for a couple of days. So he’d quit his job and left his shit-hole of an apartment without a second thought, almost as an automatic response.

 

But now he’s here, he’s had time to think and overthink, and he still doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s been dead set against ever staying in Oslo on a long term basis, yet here he is, looking for a job, thinking about internet plans. Without the reassuring routine he had set for himself back in Trondheim, he feels a familiar anxiety creeping up on him, seizing his chest in cold and unforgiving fingers.

 

He lets himself be submerged, lets the terror fill him completely. He squeeze his eyes shut, tries to hold the tears back. His breathing accelerates and his body starts to tremble. He starts counting out loud, his voice coming out in shaky whispers.

 

“En, to, tre...”

 

 

 

 

The sun isn’t up yet when he’s conscious again, but there is no way he’s going to fall asleep again. The house is eerily silent as he goes to splash water on his face. It doesn’t really do him any good, doesn’t make him feel any more alive.

 

He turns his laptop on and tries to focus on the words displayed on the pages before him. Might as well do something useful while he’s up.

 

The house feels particularly unwelcoming today the weak winter sunlight barely filters through the windows, leaving the rooms engulfed in darkness. So he forces himself to leave it, despite his weak body protesting. He stops by the temp agency again. A few places are looking for waiters and cashiers. He knows better than to apply to jobs in cafes and restaurant. Nobody in their right mind will have someone looking like him deal with customers. But he’s worked in supermarkets before, sorting out shelves and cleaning mostly, so he leaves his resume to the one he knows.

 

At some point, his body can’t take the strain any more and he has to rest. He heads to the library and ends up spending the rest of the day there. He finds a book on plankton that has him engrossed for hours despite the words swimming in front of him every now and then. It’s a new edition of a book he read a few years ago, updated with a new foreword and a couple of chapters on the latest research.

 

The following days are a blend of time spent reading at the thankfully deserted library and walking around the city, leaving CVs here and there. Despite his better judgement, he finds himself walking familiar streets, seeing familiar places. It’s odd to think that he once roamed this streets with other people. That he was one of them. Or maybe he wasn’t. He’s always been the way he is today, he supposes, he just hid it better. Add a few centimetres to someone, cut their hair, and suddenly they feel brand new.

 

The stones at least, haven’t changed. A new building, a coat of paint here and there, a few trees cut down, he could almost pretend it was ten years ago. He realises how far back into the past his thoughts are taking him when he mistakes strangers for people he used to know. The faces of his friends superimpose those of people he’s never met. The flash of a beanie, the glint of a smile, the hint of a familiar expression, the echo of a voice.

 

The restlessness grows, and the books aren’t cutting it. His thoughts are drowning him, and he’s not sure how long he can fight of the memories. The exhaustion gets overwhelming at times, and he’s not sure he’s completely there. He thinks about taking up running or swimming again, but he’s almost certain his body can’t take the strain any more.

 

He crashes into a guy as he gets of the bus one morning. Is it Thursday ? Friday ? He’s not sure. The shock pretty much sends him sprawling on the pavement. He mutters an apology, ignores the guy’s concerned voice as he stands up painfully and slinks away in shame, back curbed and head bent.

 

Things don’t get better at nights. He still can’t sleep despite the bone-deep weariness. His mental barrier are starting to crumble and there’s only so much he can do to keep the phantoms of the past at bay.

 

But then, against all odds, the universe hands him a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is not dead !  
> The reaction to [To ease your worry](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21016571/chapters/49983971) has been so positive that it has inspired and helped me write a few more pages for this.  
> Thing is, A long way home is harder to write, mostly because of its slow pace but also because it's special to me and I feel like every word that I write does it very little justice.  
> It's also complicated to write because although I know how it goes, there are still some blanks to fill so to speak. On the plus side of things, I've begun working on the next part already and I quite like what I've got so far.  
> To those who've read and enjoyed the story so far, thank you so much and please, don't give up yet !


	5. Chapter 4

IV

 

It’s an office barely deserving of the name. The room is cramped and cluttered files and folders perched precariously on tired metal shelves. The sole desk is barely visible under stacks upon stacks of paper, the only bit of technology, an antique is purring laboriously. A smell of old perfumes fills the stifling air of a space that looks like it’s going to close down on his unfortunates occupants long before soon.

 

It’s an interview in name only. Five minutes into their one-sided conversation, it becomes clear that this lady, middle-aged, wire-thin and tired looking does not, in fact, want to be here. He catches a brief glint of curiosity, and probably some disgust as well, in her pale, red-rimmed eyes. If there ever was a profile for this type of position, he probably does not fit it. Young-ish guy, with a partial education living in a nice-ish house in a good neighborhood. Her eyes flickers back and forth between him and his CV. He knows how it looks. He’s actually bothered to shave, but that does little to help with his generally unkept appearance that’s become his default look.

 

The list of jobs he’s held is nothing to shout about, but it is a testimony of his willingness to do pretty much any paid work, which is probably what she’s looking after. The questions she asks are predictable and boring, and he can feel her skirting around the subject of why he actually wants the position. In the end he just shrugs and explains that he needs the money, and blames the economy.

 

That turns out to be a grave mistake as she launches into a rant about today’s society, the government’s latests wrongdoings, the dangers of immigration and the foolishness of youth. He nods and agrees, hums when expected. He knows he type, knows how important she sees herself and, crucially, how important she considers what little power she actually wields. He’s met a few like her before and has learned to appear meek. He keeps his head bowed and his whole posture submissive. This kind of ordinary bully can smell blood from a mile off, it’s not hard to play into that.

 

She does end up hiring him once she’s cooled off a bit and moved back to the topic of this particular job.

 

It’s a two people job, cleaning offices from 21h to 5h. He’ll be replacing a woman who’s apparently been taken away by the police for being in the country illegally. Probably from one of those jihad countries, according to his new boss.

 

“To think I’d trusted her. If I’d only known...”

 

He nods again. He supposes being blond and Norwegian makes him automatically trustworthy in her world.

 

“You’ll start tomorrow, Mr. Valtersen. Mrs. Dascălu will show you where everything is and how you’re expected to work.”

 

She doesn’t expect him to have any question, which he doesn’t anyway. He’s just glad he can finally get away from her when she signals the end of their meeting. He gets out of the tiny glorified broom closet as fast as he can without seeming too rude.

 

 

The few hours that follow have him feeling oddly elated. It feels like an accomplishment. He’s gotten plenty of jobs before and gone through worse interviews, but this one feels like a bright spot in an otherwise dark string of weeks. It’s the first step to setting up a new routine and a return to a pseudo sense of normalcy.

 

It’s also the perfect job for him. Working night shifts means he’ll have very limited contact with other people, and that suits him just fine. By the end of the day, he’s already worked out the bus routes and times, set aside a change of clothes for tomorrow and loaded his phone with music.

 

He has to walk quite a bit to catch the line that gets him at the right address but knows he can definitely use the exercise. The bus is blessedly mostly empty. The lights of the city pass as a blur before his unfocused eyes, the music blaring from his earbuds shut out the unwelcome voices in his head. His new place of employment is a non-descript building as there are so many. Tall, grey, probably built in the fifties but renovated a few times to follow the latest trends. It does look clean, all sharp and shiny in the light drizzle.

 

He has a badge now. It has an unflattering picture of him on it, not that there is any other kind, and opens pretty much every door. He’s to wait in the lobby for his only coworker – and mentor- Mrs. Dascălu. He’s done this kind of work, a couple of years ago, so he’s not too worried about fucking up.

 

He’s a good ten minutes early, which means waiting in the spacious and cold lobby. Marble tiles, plastic chairs and a couple of potted plants. A large reception desk with the company logo displayed on the wall behind it. A red and black M on a white background. For some strange reason, he wonders if he’s seen that M before. It does look familiar.

 

There’s a night guard sitting behind a desk, watching what looks like a football game on his phone, who barely spares him a glance. Which is just as well. He’s gotten used to being invisible, and he likes it.

 

He once applied for a job like this, a night watchman. The recruiter had taken a look at him and chortled an unpleasant laugh. _What am I going to do with a string bean like you? Go home, kid, it’s not for you._

 

He’d left, his tail between his legs, head low and burning with humiliation. He’s at least good enough to clean floors. Making himself inconspicuous has become second nature over the years. It used to be hard at first, his height and blond curls making it easy to spot him. With the hair long gone and his head constantly bent low, people usually don’t look twice.

 

But Mrs. Dascălu spots him immediately. She’s a small, middled-aged woman, with tanned skin, grey hair and a tired face. A thick coat makes her appear almost as large as she is tall. She ambles to him with a warm smile that makes her whole face crinkle.

 

“You are the new cleaner, right?” she asks with an accent he doesn’t recognize.

 

He nods and tries to stand straighter. She looks like a mother, she certainly has the stare of one. Kind, but authoritative.

 

“Hum, yeah. Isak Valtersen.”

 

“It’s nice to meet you Isak. My name is Sofia. Follow me, I will explain how everything work and we will get started.”

 

She beckons him to follow and walks to the left of the reception desk. They find themselves in a barely lit small lobby with two elevators and a grey door on the other end. She unlocks the door with her pass to reveal a small room that doubles as a small changing room and a large supply closet. She points to one of the lockers on the wall.

 

“You can put your things in there”.

 

She then proceeds to explain what their main tasks are – tidying up, cleaning floors, desks, computer screens, watering the plants, washing the dishes, all obvious things – how they organise work between themselves, what products they use, and so on. They only have one cleaning cart between themselves, the company is apparently to cheap to get them a second one. So they have to make do.

 

All he can do is nod, he’s heard it all before and she tells him nothing new. He does follow her obediently and they get started. Because he doesn’t know where things go and is not familiar with the layout of those offices, he mostly sticks to cleaning and observes her putting away cups, supplies, tidying up desks, all the while chattering away.

 

She rambles constantly, seemingly happy to have a new fresh ear to replace the poor girl who was unjustly sacked.

 

“Very shy girl, she was. But that woman.”

 

Her face contorts in a look of anger, and for a second, he thinks she might spit on the floor.

 

“What a horrible woman.”

 

A refrains from snorting, astonished by this woman’s naivety. What did she think? People don’t shit rainbows and draw little pink hearts in their spare time. He only needed a few minutes to have her sorted out in his category of “human beings are shit”. Which includes pretty much anybody he’s ever met.

 

“Still insists I’m Polish, too.”

 

She is not, apparently. Although originally from rural Romania, she’s lived in Norway most of her life, has two children, one of whom is Isak’s age and studying to be a surgeon in Stockholm. She’s a widow, she studied literature but worked as a seamstress before being forced out of her position. She thankfully doesn’t elaborate on that, although he’s sure there’s a whole story there she might share before soon. She’s working two jobs to pay the bills, help her eldest in Stockholm and put her youngest through school.

 

He tries tuning her out unsuccessfully, and gives vague answers to the question he fails to dodge. She eventually relents but he knows he’s only managed to buy himself a short reprieve. She’s the kind who likes talking and, to his horror, enjoys getting others to confide in her.

 

Time passes mind numbingly slow as they go from office to office, floor to floor, moving slowly across rows of identical desks, making sure the model workers in this building have shiny floors to walk on and clean screens to look at all day. They’re done with their tasks just as the clock hits 5.

 

It doesn’t take them too long to get back down to their small office, clean their supplies and lock the door behind them once more.

 

Sofia waves at the night guard before bidding him a good day, yet another crinkly smile on her face. It’s still very much dark outside and he rides the empty bus back home as the city starts to wake up.

Lights are being turned on in behind curtain covered windows, early morning workers are getting to their cars, streets are being cleaned by tired looking men in uniforms.

 

The exhaustion hits him in the shower, where he tries to scape off the dirt that feels like second skin, and has him sag against the cold white tile.

 

That’s his life now. A voice in his head tells him that he should get used to it, that he’s going to repeat this routine for the next forty years of his life, until his body wilts and crumples, fails him one last time and finally grants him a deliverance he’s too much of a coward to even think about getting.

 

As the bleak morning sun starts filtering through the windows around the house, he lets his head hit the pillows and hopes for sleep to grant him temporary solace, but know already that there will be no small mercy today, or in the days to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, here's another chapter. Not sure how long I can keep a regular posting schedule on this story, but hey, might as well try.  
> I know things are going agonizingly slow with the story, but it's kind of the whole point. I can tell you though that stuff is actually happening in the next chapter, which will be up at some point in the future. Also, I enjoy dropping hints and clues, see if you can spot them! :D
> 
> For those of you guys who enjoy my other story To ease your worry, I'm going to post a very short preview of chapter 6 (yeah, 6, not 5) for Halloween tomorrow on my profile. Feel free to check it out, the chapter itself will be up in roughly ten days from now.
> 
>  
> 
> **As always, I'm amazed at the reaction to this story, and so very thankful for your continued support, it really does mean a lot.**


	6. Chapter 6

V

 

 

It takes him about two weeks to finally get the message across to his co-worker that he does not, indeed, want to share his life story and is definitely not even remotely interested in listening to more details about hers.

It’s a short reprieve, at best. In a few days, in a few weeks, she’ll start again. Maybe he’ll slip up, maybe she’ll find a crack and go in, full of questions and motherly concern. He absolutely abhors the idea.

By now they operate like a fine oiled machine and he’s taken to wearing his earbuds and drowning her voice with music or science podcasts. It doesn’t make the job any less soul-crushingly boring, but it does help time pass infinitesimally faster. Also, it allows him to pretend he still gets some semblance of education. Not that it means anything. It just passes the time.

His first pay check is nothing to be proud of, he knew right from the start money would be shit, but he’d at least hoped it would keep the constant feeling of uselessness at bay for a couple of days. It doesn’t. It just confirms that impression that he’s signed his condemnation to death by boredom.

He ends cancelling his trip to Bergen just a couple of days before he’s supposed to go. He tells himself it just wasn’t the right time, that he needs to get settled into his new routine and he’ll go later next year, when the days are longer and the warmer. Deep down, he knows he won’t.

He knows that the only tie he’s got to the real world any more is on the verge of snapping. He’s not sure what’s going to happen when he finally visits her. Whether it’s a question of being brave or desperate enough, he doesn’t know, but he does have an inkling. What happens then. What becomes of him?

He’ll finally complete his transformation into a mindless drone. He started burying himself alive years ago and he’s just now putting the final nails in his mental coffin. An empty shell is what he’ll become. Some would fear that, the emptiness, the void. He looks forward to it, welcomes it even. Waits for the nothingness to finally consume him and release him from this world that for forsook him long ago.

 

 

*

 

 

It happens right before Christmas, because of course it does.

Every night, he rides the bus to the city centre, bundled up in a coat now so old it’s holding by a thread. He’s never bothered replacing it, he doesn’t even own a scarf. His only concession to winter is the thin beanie he wears over his shaved head. It doesn’t do anything to hold back the cold. The freezing wind is ever present anyway, ensnaring him in a web of numbness.

Days are getting shorter and shorter, until it feels like a constant night. He knows it’s objectively impossible, Oslo lies too far away south of the Arctic Circle for that. But the heavy dark clouds hang over his head, laden with rain and wet snow. He spends a fair amount of time trudging through brownish slush, pushing is ever exhausted body through the gloom of a mournful routine.

Sleep still eludes him, but he’s never quite fully awake either. In this purgatory state, his unfocused eyes watch the artificial lights without seeing them. Christmas lights bathing the streets in violent colours, the deep growl of masses of people out for late evening shopping, the nauseating scent of sugar and grease, the distant, disharmonious echoes of smiles and happiness like the out-of-tune image of an old telly. He ignores the grey and blurred faces of strangers, shadows sitting across him on the bus. People lost in their own worlds, trapped into their miserable humdrum days, escaping through the small glowing screens of their phones.

Later, once he’s at work, earbuds in his ears, music he doesn’t even remember picking blaring against his eardrums, he’ll wonder how it happened. It’ll just be an impression, a foot print erased by the sea. A dream he knows he had, but can’t remember. He’ll blame his exhausted brain giving him hallucinations. It’s a flash. The fraction of a hint. Something from the corner of his eye that doesn’t materialise until a few minutes later. It leaves him shell shocked. His hand is shaking as he slowly takes the earbuds out of his ears, trying for a second to ground himself in reality to comprehend what just happened. His heart is beating wildly and his breath is coming out in ragged puffs. The pain is almost physical.

Whether it’s a vague reflection, the glint of an eye that catches the light, he can’t say.

But as he’s moping the floor in a blank and dark office near the top of the building, the knowledge finally permeates his mind.

 

Jonas.

 

 

*

 

 

It’s all he can think about the next few days. Every second of every minute of every hour he lays half-conscious in his bed. His limbs are shaking constantly, his body feels like jelly stretched too thin on a piece of toast. His head is a never-ending buzz of anxiety and memories he’s hitherto tried to keep buried. He’s started taking pills or the headaches again.

Distant sounds of laughter, gentle greetings and growing concerns, blurry images of green eyes and darks curls, a mask of pitying expression flow and ebb into his tired mind.

How long has it been since he last actually saw him, he wonders. Over a decade, most likely. He can’t even remember the last time they talked. Something inconsequential too. They’d stopped being friends long before that anyway, Isak had made sure of that. He still remembers the impression of their last few encounters though. It had been like seeing a strangers, on both sides he guesses. Superficial, stilted talks about the weather, work or uni. Isak had even stopped pretended he was interested, only half listening, already far away gone.

Jonas had fought him the most, he can give him that. But he’d given up too in the end. He’d grown tired of making an effort, trying to keep alive a friendship that had long died. That had been for the best.

He questioned that decision a few times over those first few years. Wondering what could have been. But he always ended up reaching the conclusion that he’d made the right call, that it was better this way. That he was better off on his own. He didn’t need anyone, he never had. And no one needed him.

After a while, he’d pushed all those questions and memories to the back his mind and resolved to forget that part of his life. It made things easier. If he had no past, he had not future, and only the present time mattered. That was just enough for his brain to handle.

But now. He can’t stop thinking. About everything. The deeper parts of his subconscious are an open floodgate, pouring a torrent of anxiety and worry to the front of his mind. He tries to push it all back down, to no avail. What semblance of inner peace he pretended to have has been washed away by images he’d tried so hard to forget.

He thinks, and wonders, and doubts, and questions. He’s going round and round, doing that circular thinking he knows so well. It all boils down to one question though: did Jonas see him?

The immediate answer is: what if he did? He looks nothing like his teenage self anyway, there is no way Jonas will have recognized him, especially in the semi dark, behind the window of a bus.

On the other hand, Isak recognized him, at least on a subconscious level. Which means, Jonas might have done the same. So what then?

It’s not that bad, really. Oslo’s a big city, he rationalises. It was bound to happen, but it doesn’t mean it’ll happen again. Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, that kind of thing. So he’s probably safe. And if it happens again, he’ll just take the earlier bus. That’ll make him arrive way too early for his liking, but he doesn’t have anything better to do, and it’s still better than being seen by his former friend.

Or maybe he’ll just pretend he doesn’t exist, he’s been doing that for years, it’ll take a bit of energy, but he can do it, he’s stronger now (although, a voice in the recesses of his being is whispering that he really, really isn’t).

With this newfound resolve, he goes back to work and pretends nothing happened. He’s fidgety, his eyes darting left and right whenever he boards the bus, but not sign of Jonas.

If she notices his anxious state, which of course she must have, his colleague thankfully does not say anything. She prattles and rambles as usual and he drowns the sound of her voice with new podcasts.

He throws himself into work, cleaning, mopping, tidying, dusting with newfound vigour. He scrubs until his hands are raw, washes until things look new, erases all traces of human action.

It’s exactly four days before Christmas when he gives up pretending. He doesn’t even remember when he last got a proper sleep. He’s just got home from work and it’s still very much dark and freezing outside. A chilling wind sweeps the empty streets of the neighbourhood. Most people have yet to wake up as he unlocks the front door.

His mind in a haze, he turns on his old laptop and does something he hasn’t done in years. He logs on to his Instagram account. It takes him a few tries, he’s long forgotten his password. He almost laughs at the utter absurdity of it.

The display before him is like a punch in the gut that leaves him momentarily breathless. With a trembling finger, he traces the faces on the screen. Is that really him? He looks so different. So young, so happy, so innocent. It’s all lies, of course. He’d never been innocent. A snake, that what people used to call him, and that’s what he was. He’s always been good at pretending, hiding behind a facade he’d carefully built.

As for happy, he’d never known that not really. He’s made his peace with that long ago. It’s not for him, it never was in the cards. He’s accepted that’s he’ll have to do with just existing.

Still, the lies look convincing. The smiles and silent laughter. The jokes, banter and friendship. All looks so distant. He feels like he’s looking at someone else’s life, someone he might have met in passing. Those memories aren’t his, those people he never knew.

It physically hurts. Who was this person?

Then he gets a notification on his phone and his breath catches in his throat. Messages.

He slams the phone back down on the desk, gets up and leaves the room. He closes the door behind him and goes down. He paces the living room, the kitchen, not even bothering to turn on the lights.

Trying desperately to get his breathing under control, he then sits down on the sofa, puts his heads between his hands. He’s not sure whether he can think or he’s thinking too much. Things are swirling around his mind, his body is about to open itself in half. The nausea that overwhelms him has him retching a few times.

 

 

It might be the lack of food combining with the newly added stress that has him passing out, but it’s daylight when he wakes up, the weak, full, grey light of a winter morning filtering through the curtains. He stretches painfully, trying to clear the cobwebs in his head before taking sluggish steps to the kitchen.

Almost on autopilot, he takes out some muesli from the cupboard. He slouches heavily against the table and munches slowly. He feels more exhausted than calm now, but better prepared to deal with whatever his phone is going to show him. He slowly cleans the mess he made the day before in the living room.

Eventually, he goes back upstairs, pulling his aching body step after step. The door is looking particularly ominous. The stifling silence around him almost corporeal.

The phones sits on the desk, screen face down, looking treacherously innocuous. He can’t quite stop his hand from shaking as he reaches for it, hating how heavy it suddenly feels.

The screen comes to life and displays the last message he received. One word, and a question mark. His name.

It’s Jonas, of course, who else could it have been.

Letting out a trembling sigh, he opens the application. There are actually dozens of messages waiting for him. All from Jonas, he supposes. He doesn’t look at them, can’t bring himself to read whatever Jonas wrote, and goes to the settings.

There’s only one thing to do. Something he should have done over a decade ago when he first started erasing his online presence. But he’d been a coward back then. And a fool. He’d kept the account out of some idiotic hope that things might change, revert back to what they were, that he’d be able to pretend he was someone he wasn’t.

At least now he knows. He knows better than to hope or believe. And he can finally do it. It takes him a while. He has to go through the support section to finally be able to do it.

His finger pauses before the final click, but he only hesitates for a short moment before clicking the red box. It’s better this way he tells himself.

Just like this, his Instagram account is no more. Another tie to his past severed. He should probably feel sad or dismayed, but it’s relief that washes over him. He’s safe now, relatively. There’s no way left for anyone from his previous life to contact or find him.

He can go back to the comforting cover of anonymity. Back to the being an invisible little ant, unseen and unnoticed. Whoever said that people defined their lives by their online existence is hopefully right.

 

Isak is only happy to fade into non-existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a new chapter. It's still much shorter than I like, but it's there at least. I have to say, writing this takes a lot out of me, but I do enjoy the challenge.
> 
> As I've said before, this is pretty dark, and will continue to be so for the foreseeable future. On the other hand, things are finally happening and we get more hints about Isak's past. And as usual, it'll get worse before it gets better. But it will get better.
> 
> Next chapter will probably take a while to be posted, as I need to write more for To Ease Your Worry  and I'm teaching a physics class (I hate physics) next week, which I need to plan and prepare.
> 
> **As always, I'm very grateful to everyone who has read, liked and commented on this story, your support means a lot and definitely helps keeping me invested in this.**


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